


It All Started

by Harley_N_Joker



Series: WIP Me Into Shape [2]
Category: Psych
Genre: M/M, WIP, and has a hairy monster on his chest, inspired by Timothy Omundson, which I swear to God, who looks dashing in a kilt, would be able to devour my whole hand if I ever were to touch it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 10:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harley_N_Joker/pseuds/Harley_N_Joker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every writer, may it be some big named fantasy author or just some low-life trying to feel great by writing cheap porn like me, has to have some scripts hidden in the back his of mind and computer. Scripts he or she may have found great as an idea but lacked the enthusiasm and creativity to write down on paper. Or better, finish to write down on paper.<br/>These are mine and yes, I am such an attention whore that I´ll even upload things I´m partially ashamed of. Namely because, after years refining my skills in this complex, foreign language, I realize how badly a few of them are written.</p><p> </p><p>Second comes something from the good, old days: Psych!<br/>One of the first fandoms I felt obligated to write porn-ish stories about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With A Movie

**Author's Note:**

> Oh sweet, sweet nostalgia...when I was still madly in love with Psych...  
> And I actually looked at the publish date on ff.net, this story´s almost four years old and still not finished. Tragic, I know, but a sure indication that it´s going to stay like this for a long period of time.
> 
> Also, four years? If you read one my new stories and thought "God damnit, I hate non-natives violating the English language!" wait until you´ve read this little piece of over-enthusiastic creativity that should have led to something but has fallen victim to first laziness and then slight disgust coupled with a good portion of embarassment and the note to ever deny its existence.  
> Which makes this upload kind of counter-productive, I know...

"This is actually kinda cool. I mean, if you scratch the odd and crazy feeling…" Shawn said with a very amused grin on his face.

It was the 17th March, the day of St. Patrick's Day, and Disney had decided to spam the whole TV program with their Disney Channel movies.

And because he and Gus had nothing to do - Abigail had to work an extra shift at the kindergarten so the parents, especially the dads, could drink themselves into oblivion, Gus had his day off (one of his bosses was Irish) and they couldn't meet Jules (and hopefully Lassie), because their work had not ended yet – they settled down in front of their Hifi television and let their brains be killed by childish stupidity.

Until **this** movie started.

"Shawn…is that really Lassiter in a skirt wrestling with a kid?" Gus` irritated voice asked the Shawn-didn't know-anymore-time and the brunette had to suppress his laughter.

"No Gus. This Lassiter in a kilt wrestling with a kid." he answered between soundless giggles.

"Weird, totally weird…"

"Yeah, but I think the role of the meany Irish leprechaun fits him really well and hey, now we know how he looks in ordinary jeans and a leather jacket."

"And a skirt…"

"A kilt, dude."

"Whatever Shawn!"

His best friend huffed and tried to concentrate on the movie, which grew more and more difficult by the time they reached the scene where the brunette boy and his Afro-American friend – this reminded Shawn of someone, but who? – had bet they could beat the evil Lassie-leprechaun - his name in this movie was actually Seamus, but Shawn couldn't care less – in a basketball game.

"Dude! Look! There is no hair!" Shawn pointed at the screen bouncing on the couch like an excited child unpacking its most wanted toy on Christmas Eve.

"Not on his arms, not under his arms – okay, that's a children movie, so I guess he had to shave there – and not on his legs!"

"Shawn, I see it…"

"But look, this sternum bush is huge!"

"I know…"

"I mean, I knew his chest hair…no…his chest fur, yes, was big, but this is like a gigantic hair monster sitting on his chest eating all the other hairy parts, at least the ones I see…not that I want to see all the hairy parts…of his body…"

"SHAWN, STOP IT!" Gus` high pitched and too girly like voice screamed next to him.

"This is gross…"

"Gus, don't tell me you're imagining this?"

The fake psychic poked his friend in the arm and looked more amused than he should be in this situation. But all he earned was a `Humph´ and a very sick looking Gus stomping towards the bathroom and slamming the door behind him.

Yup, this was going to be one hell of a good day Shawn decided, while settling back on the couch, munching on some left popcorn and watching the last scenes of this wonderful movie.

Oh how he loved St. Patrick's Day…


	2. With Spilled Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe that, even though I´m kind of ashamed of this story, I still can´t help myself but chuckle when I read it on occasion?  
> This is the power of pineapple, guys!

Lassiter knew she'd done it out of purpose.

His whole suit was drowning in hot – he could feel some mild burns forming on his right thigh and left shoulder – coffee and he was pissed, really pissed.

After the fifteenth drunken fight he had stopped counting, the fights themselves and his bruises. And now Carlton had thought this nightmare of a day – hell it was St. Patrick's Day, **his** holiday – was over and he could enjoy the remaining hours with himself and his lovely Scotch.

"Whoa Lassie, you do know you have to drink the coffee to stay awake?" a happy, cheerful voice chirped behind him and the head detective had to stifle his groan.

He supposed he was dead wrong…

His partner gave him an apologetic smile and took the burden to talk to the psychic.

"That was actually my fault, Shawn. I am so tired. I hadn't seen him." Juliet said regretfully.

Lassiter couldn't care less, so he told the three others he would go changing and then home.

After the door was closed the blonde woman let out a sigh, while turning her now frowning face to Shawn.

"Do you really think the plan will work?"

"Jules…my lovely little Jules…of course it will work." the brunette answered happily and clapped his hands together.

"When did my plans ever prove wrong?"

Juliet thought for a moment but couldn't remember such a situation, though she heard a not so subtle cough from Gus which sounded oddly like Mexico…

 

Carlton was tired and angry…

And exhausted, annoyed, burnt, beaten and kiss my ass, thank you, goodbye.

He carefully undressed himself, wincing when he stepped out of his trousers and shirt. Thankfully no one could hear him in this moment of weakness. He hissed again in pain when the hot water touched his coffee-kissed shoulder and the turning-to-be-very-ugly-bruise on his left side.

But after this faded slowly the Irish man was finally able to relax and enjoyed a good fifteen minute shower without bothering his mind about Spencer end the rest of the Horror Gang.


	3. With Alice Walking Through The Looking Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, don´t ask me how I think up those titles...it involves a lot of drugged ice tea...

With a blissfully blank mind Carlton stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist and with another one he was drying his salt-and-pepper hair.

Sighing he heaved a big sports bag out of his locker. Blessed with great foresight, as ever, Lassiter had brought changing clothes with him today. Just in case. He had to admit the clothes weren´t as good as his suit, but they were his favourite casual ones and so they would do a good job of comforting him until he was finally save back home.

So the detective slipped into a pair of black boxers, an old blue washed-out jeans, of what he hadn't expected to fit so well like it did – hey, after three years of not wearing who would it? - and a fir green T-Shirt with a black four-leaf clover in tribal style crossing from his right to his left side.

Accidentally, while stuffing the bag with the coffee-stained suit, he glanced at the mirror near the door and had to smile. The person who watched him from the other side of the room looked nothing like the Carlton-hard-in-his-job-ass-Lassiter – yes, he knew how the other officers and detectives at work saw him – who observed him every morning.

No, this Carlton Lassiter looked calm, almost content and nothing like the stressed man with this grim face even **he** hated on some days.

He sighed again and ruffled slightly through his now dry hair.

Perhaps he would wear such an outfit more often…when no one was around, of course.

With a slight smile on his face he returned to packing the bag. After the dirty clothes were tucked away Carlton braced himself a last time for the storm of unneeded, annoying chattering that would so certainly follow after exiting this room like the sunrise after every night.

A last sigh and he grabbed the doorknob entering the lion's den.

"Lassie!"

Damn!

He'd been so close at the entrance door of the department and had actually hoped nobody had seen him. But it seemed faith didn't smile on him today. And after the second escape – yes, he still tried to escape a Shawn Spencer after being spotted – which failed miserably because of a sneaky little hand grabbing his upper arm in an almost lovingly way.

"Now Alice, don't run away from us."

Alice?

Really?

He called him Alice, as from Alice in Wonderland?

Seriously, how mad could this guy actually be?

As he finally turned around to face his fate in form of this crazy bunch of people – yes, he had seen O'Hara and Guster hiding behind the corner a few feet away – Carlton told himself why not playing along with it? His day was a perfect disaster up to now, so it couldn't get worse, now could it?

Wondering whether this was a good decision the head detective decided he would face everything Spencer could possibly throw at him the rest of the evening.

So he answered: "Why not? There's only this odd Cheshire Cat staring at me like I'm a fish ready to eat, a White Bunny hiding together with this curious Mad Hatter over there and the Queen of Hearts from who I wish to behead me right now."

According to his wide eyes, Spencer obviously didn't expect this sort of answer from him and a smile of triumph crossed the Irish man's face.

Then, after a few more seconds of silence, resounding laughter was heard in the SBPD, coming from the brunette in front of him, which went for – Lassiter looked at his watch in annoyance – six minutes and the younger man didn't seem to stop soon.

Assured there was no danger coming from Lassiter – at least today – Juliet and Gus approached the two men in front of the entrance. Smiling happily - this made Lassiter cringe inwardly - the blond detective gazed at his outfit.

Seemingly she liked it.

"So you're in a better mood now, I see."

A nod came from her partner.

"Well that's great. Because we wanted to invite you to our own Saint Patrick's Day party."

No! Everything in him screamed this small word in agony. He would not drink himself into oblivion with this three people at his side. No way! That was never going to happen, ever. He did it once with his wife - correction, ex-wife – and it was, friendly said, something he wouldn't want to experience again.

So he said the only thing possible in this situation.

"Fine but you're paying…"

And there he had fallen right into the rabbit hole in a land he would certainly hate the next morning – most probably even this evening. And like the poor, little, blond girl he was doomed.

So doomed.


	4. With Too Much Glasses Of Scotch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once made jell-o with pineapple and despite my fears of fruit losing the fight against gravity those little f...resh out of the can pieces surprised me and took a bath in a raspberry lake.

Shawn hadn't expected his plan would work so well.

Actually he hadn't thought the plan would work at all.

Seriously, this was Carlton Lassiter. Did he had to say more?

No?

Well, bad luck for you because he had something very important to say.

"Oh my god…he looks awesomely hot in this jeans." the brunette blurted out and earned a dreamy "Yes, he does…" from Jules and a disgusted and slightly jealous – Wait, jealous? Ah no, this feeling was directed to Juliet, so it was more than welcome – from Gus.

But Shawn couldn't care less what his best buddy in the world wanted from the blond detective – actually he knew what his Afro-American friend wanted from her, but never mind.

His eyes were glued to the tall man, who was walking directly to the exit. His soft, silk-like hair – oh, how often had he slapped himself literally for wanting to touch it – the broad shoulders – just rawrrrr – his muscled back and this Please-grab-me-right-here-and-now-ass…

To say the psychic was drooling was the understatement of the year – he was creating a wholly new ocean.

Someone poked him out of his X-rated thoughts and he was ready to kill the harasser as he turned around. But was stopped by Jules' apologetic look.

"You know, when you want your plan to work, you should stop Carlton before he gets out." she whispered and pointed at the head detective.

"No", "Shit" and "I have to stop him!" were a few of the phrases ghosting around in Shawn's head at this statement. So he did what he ever had done since his first real day as a (fake) psychic.

"Lassie!"

And here he was.

Sitting at a shaky table with three drunk, happy and laughing people. This was not what it supposed to be. Because actually there should be four drunk, happy and laughing people or two couples – as you can guess, drunk, happy and kissing – at this stupid table!

He sounded berserk?

Hell, he was!

There he had thought his plan was perfectly working:

Step One: Get Lassie pissed off with dumb St. Patrick's work. Thanks to all daddies in Santa Barbara, an easy task. Checked.

Step Two: Get Lassie even more pissed off with brutally dumb St. Patrick's work. Thank you, lonely Santa Barbara men. Checked.

Step Three: Let Lassie reach the peak of his mountain of madness – No, please don't do the 300 joke. Gus had taken Shawn´s fun by mentioning it 37 times – and cool him off with fresh coffee. Merci, lovely Jules. Checked.

Step Four: Beg on your knees to the Irish man to celebrate the evening with you – and the others of course – and promise him in the same breath to pay everything he drinks. (Fortunately, Shawn had been able to scratch that part from his plan list. Thank god, this would've been the worst and ugliest one.)

The final Step: Lassie, awfully drunk lying on his back and gazing at him on top his lap with those wonderful, crystal blue eyes. Naked, like god made them. Rubbing against each other, gasping and moaning the other one's name… DENIED!

Shawn bristled with repressed anger.

He knew fate was a bitch. But had luck to be the same – or even worse?

Startled out of his thoughts by a very feminine squeal the brunette looked up – from trying to burn his coke with a death glare – to see something he didn't ever want to see.

"Urgh! Gus, stop undressing Jules! And Jules, don't nibble Gus' ear!" he screamed – of course hushed – at the two lovebirds. Why wasn't he allowed having such f- fuck, what was that?

Looking at his left side Shawn's breath caught in his throat.

There was the cause of his wet dreams: Carlton Lassiter, head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department looking at him with his slightly closed blue eyes like he was willing to eat the psychic alive.

God, this was all he ever wanted, right here and now sitting beside him ready to…do some inappropriate things.

Yeah, this was what he wanted the whole time… Lassie, drunk, sexy and very interested in him.

So what else than jumping the man could he possibly do?


	5. With A Blackout - What Else?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the last chapter for this part.  
> Feel free to adopt, change, re-write and publish it with much more finesse than I did. Just please, tell me when you do.
> 
>  
> 
> And tune in next time for: Assassin´s Need Love Too, the name I gave one of my fanfiction folders shamelessly stolen from Infamous2.

Carlton had a frigging hangover.

His head hurt like he'd bumped it one too many times on a wall and his whole body was stiff like a few hours old corpse.

On the other side had he had the best sleep in his life since his divorce.

So though his body suffered a lot of pain, his mind didn't care a single bit at the moment. Carlton felt safe – Yes, safe. He actually wondered for himself how this could've ever happen without a gun. – and warm, thanks to the corpus lying more on than beside and cuddling…into…his…

Oh, shit…

Filled with a sudden burst of fear, the black haired man immediately sat up and sent the person beside him face first in the cushions – at least the muffled "Oomph!" sounded suspiciously like that.

He panted heavily and his heart pumped the blood almost painfully through his veins. And it didn't get better when a pair of naked, manly arms – god…how drunk had he been last night? – were wrapped around his shoulders from behind and a brown shock of hair leaned against his right shoulder.

So now, most of all people on earth – except for pessimists and cynics – think it couldn't get worse. A normal thought they shared with Detective Carlton Lassiter. But as always, according to Murphy's Law – damn you for giving the bad situations following us a name! – it even, even, EVEN got worse.

"Dude…chill out. It's six in the morning. A little bit too early to freak out, don't you think?" came the sleepy answer to his actions from Shawn Spencer – oh god…maybe, maybe this was just a dream.

A terrible, horrific dream…

 

Carlton awoke slowly.

He felt no one beside him and exhaled a happy, deep sigh. So it had been just a dream after all.

He stretched his aching bones and yawned slightly before opening his eyes and looking…not at his ceiling. Perhaps it hadn't been…no, no, no he didn't want to think about that! It was most probably – and logically for his poor brain – like this: He had been way too drunk to even think the simplest things – the lack of memory he had confirmed this part of the theory - had met a beautiful woman – he assumed that due to the fruity smell in the bedroom – and sent the night with her – that would explain the satisfying feeling.

So and not else had it happened!

Yes…exactly like that…damn!

Then why did Carlton doubt that thought so much? Maybe it was the smell – which he was eighty percent sure was pineapple - maybe the only mid-sized wardrobe – Yes, it was clichéd to think the thing with the wardrobe, but he believed in that - maybe the half dressed Spencer leaning against the door-frame and watching him or the…wait!

Lassiter's gaze turned back to the younger man – Unfortunately he was truly there and no hallucination. – who was now approaching the bed.

"Are you okay, Lassie? You're still looking a bit pale…"

Carlton shook his head, confused by the soft, worried sound in the other one's voice.

"I'm always pale, Spencer. Thank you for stating the obvious."

A broad grin spread across the younger man's face and he finally looked like the Shawn Spencer he tried to avoid every time he could.

Realizing there was no chance to escape the situation he feared the most – and Spencer sitting almost on his lap didn't make it easier for him - Lassiter sighed deeply and prepared himself for a conversation he would not like at all.

"Fine…I need coffee and my clothes. Then you'll tell me everything that happened last night, understood?"

Spencer nodded while trying not to laugh. What was so funny?

"The coffee's no problem, Carly. But your clothes…"

"What's with them? Don't tell me you shred them into pieces!"

Another helpless try not to laugh. Seriously, if he didn´t get his coffee soon, Carlton would murder.

"What is it, Spencer? Why are you laughing?"

The fake psychic pointed at his chest and Lassiter immediately looked down.

"Ohh…" was the only thing he could say. He had worn his clothes the whole time. How come he hadn't noticed…oh yeah, because he fainted - very unmanly – and then freaked out because the thought of sleeping with Shawn Spencer was too much to bear – hell, was he a woman? – and being logical.

"So Detective, are you actually going to listen to me or do you want to stare into space all day?"

Lassiter blinked. Confused by the sudden change of bedroom to kitchen. How had Spencer…no, he actually didn't want to know this.

Slowly he sipped the coffee which had been placed in front of him. Three cream four sugars, exactly how he liked it. Carlton wasn't surprised.

Finally he looked up into a face filled with understanding, warmth and some other feelings he couldn't quite put his finger on. So he shoved aside concentrating on the coming things.

"Do I have your attention now, detective?"

Carlton nodded and took another sip from the – he grimly had to admit – excellent coffee.

"Sweet. Now brace yourself for the truth. Guess you won't like it. But now that I think of it, you mostly didn't like anything I said or did since I joined the group…"

"God damn it, Spencer! Would you just tell me what happened last night?" the Irish man almost screamed.

He saw the younger man flinch heavily, something he'd never saw in combination with "Shawn Spencer, Psychic extraordinaire". And now he realized it. This had to be as hard and awkward for him as it was for Lassiter himself.

Conclusion: Something big had happened yesterday while he was drunk as hell.

Hopes: Irrevocably and completely destroyed.

He heard the younger man sigh. And then a storm of words was befalling him. How O'Hara and Guster had started making out in the bar – he actually was happy for the two of them. How Spencer had drove the two lovebirds home – more precisely to Guster's place to establish their relationship – without a single drop of alcohol and Carlton was proud of him – just tiny little bit. How Spencer had considered to bring him home too but decided against it because he was worried about him – how sweet…

But all of this was – in a certain way strange but – bearable. And when he wanted to tell the man in front of him, the real (mental) fist in his face came.

"Well, and when I dragged you to the couch, you, yes you, me dear Lassie-face started groping my ass and kissing my neck."

What? This couldn't…

"It is true and will become worse in a few seconds."

God…why him?

"So, after realizing I had no chance in fighting your manly muscle strength I decided to enjoy and be conquered by you. And in the end I found myself on my back with you on top sucking my…not-behind…like you'd die if you wouldn't do it. And that's all what happened, I swear." he ended with a cheeky grin and a slightly pink face.

This…was so unreal that Lassiter could nothing but believe the fake psychic.

And, as strange as it was, Carlton didn't freak out – like two hours ago which had lead to him blacking out like a woman.

After a few minutes of depressing silence in which only the kitchen clock seemed to be alive, Lassiter drank the rest of his coffee, got up and searched for Spencer's…no, now it were Shawn's… eyes. And when he found them – holding his with an anxiety he never had seen - the only, honestly meant, words coming out of his mouth were: "I'm sorry for doing this to you. It will never happen again. I promise."

Then he left, hearing nothing else than his rapidly beating heart and the self-accusations his mind bombarded him with.

As quickly as he could – without braking laws of course - Lassiter left and hoped he wouldn't see the man – who was most probably haunting his dreams now– the next days or better weeks.

He was fucked. Royally fucked.

Maybe another blackout wouldn't be so bad right now.

He just wanted to forget this whole scene…


End file.
